Fuer Dich
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Ahiru is gone, but never forgotten. Autor sets about to compose a song for her. A story in several connecting parts.
1. Thinking About Us

**Princess Tutu**

**Fuer Dich**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the ficlit is! Rhapsody14 introduced me to the song _Fuer Dich_ by Pohlmann. It sounds so much like Autor and Ahiru in my post-series verse! I made an AMV with it, complete with Rhapsody14's translation. The AMV also inspired this accompanying, multi-part ficlit, which will use prompts from the Livejournal community 30_Deathfics. Thanks to Rhapsody14 for the inspiration!**

**Akt the First**

**Prompt: #6 - Innocence**

The autumn night was cold.

If she had been there, she would have surely complained. Even as a human, she had never liked the chill.

A fire was roaring in the old fireplace, the flames' reflections crackling and dancing on the side of the black varnish and tinting it a reddish-orange hue.

He noticed it somewhere in his mind, but the light show was not his top priority. Even so, he consciously thought about it enough to note that she would have been fascinated by it. He half-expected to hear an excited exclamation. But of course he did not. There was no one here to take pleasure in such simple things.

He sat at the piano, his hands poised over the keys. But before he could bring his fingers down to begin the construction of a new piece, he stopped, frowning.

He had never done this before. What was the urge pushing him to it now?

Perhaps a better question was, Why had he never done it before?

He had wanted to for so long. Many times while sitting at the piano and pondering on the subject of his next composition he had considered writing one for her. But for some reason or another he had always changed his mind and picked a different topic instead.

He had written about his hopeless love for Rue. He had written of sorrow and loneliness, both in the past and in the present. He had composed pieces for some of the wild adventures, times long gone that he would never have again.

Once he had even, foolishly, written a bit of music for Ahiru and Fakir. He was not sure why. It had been done on a whim late at night with a candle burning on top of the piano. He had never even intended to share it. But during one of Fakir's visits, on another whim he had played the piece for the other boy. Fakir had been more surprised than anything else, then somewhat sad. He had seemed moved, however, and had thanked Autor for letting him hear it.

Now Autor had decided not to put off this other composition any longer. In his mind he had already planned out several chords. It had happened almost without his realizing it, as he had thought of her and all that he and Fakir were now without. Notes had come to him when he had envisioned her in the past, and continued to build and flow as he concentrated on them. It was time.

He found the opening—bright, cheerful, and yet with just a touch of mystery. As he played he thought of her and all that encompassed her beautiful soul—innocence, friendliness, selflessness, absurdity, curiousness, a touch of immaturity . . . the charm that she had not known she had.

Few hearts had been quite as closed to someone like her as his had been. But she had touched him even when he had refused to believe it, and had continued to change him long after he had finally opened his heart to her and her priceless offer of friendship.

He loved her and grieved for her and missed her every day, as did Fakir. Though she had meant different things to them, they had come together in their mourning.

Fakir had been angry at first. It was understandable; Autor had really expected such a reaction from him. Not only had Fakir been upset over Ahiru's death, but over the fact that Autor had been close to her too, and knew things about her Fakir did not know. They had very nearly come to blows over it once. But when Fakir had come to his senses and stepped back, he had apologized and left in a drastically subdued state.

It had been after that when he had started to gravitate to Autor. He had wanted to know what Autor knew—the times he and Ahiru had spent together, what they had talked about . . . everything that Fakir did not already know from what Ahiru had said. Autor had complied, determining that under the circumstances Fakir deserved to know, and they had spent many long hours in conversation.

Ahiru was gone, but she lived on in their memories—and in the piece Autor was writing. He was celebrating all that had made her who she had been.

He should have composed it while she had still been alive, he reflected. He should have played it for her and seen what she would have thought.

She would have been surprised at first, no doubt. She had never seemed to fully realize the impact she had on people.

Later she would have been curious, wondering what each change in the mood of the music represented. Perhaps she would have been somewhat annoyed by some. But overall, he liked to think she would have liked it. He could imagine her suddenly embracing him without warning, thanking him for writing it and sharing it with her.

She had taken him by surprise so many times—hugging him, latching onto his arm, dragging him off to one thing and another. And though he had often been disgruntled, he had also been amused, and had secretly liked it after a time. No one had loved him as she had. No one ever would again. She had been so unique, a free spirit never bridled with cares for long.

After his own experiences, he knew this life was not the end. Someday, God willing, he would see her again. And maybe in the meantime, she was hearing his composition after all.

He knew when it was done. He took the sheets down from the piano shelf, looking through them with care and precision. Everything was in place. Everything had been said that he had wanted to say. There was just one thing left.

Taking up his pen, he wrote at the top of the first page in his clean and neat handwriting.

_Fuer Dich._

_For You._

He leaned back, inspecting it for a moment. It was simple, yet those two small words said so much. The title was deceptive, perhaps; it was far deeper than it might appear on the surface.

Just like Ahiru.


	2. Nothing Left to Save

**Notes: I always struggle with whether Piké is IC during such scenarios as this. I want her to not like Autor, but I'm never sure if she goes too far or not. I try to temper it by such things as her being honestly concerned for Ahiru and even feeling guilty wondering if she crossed the line. If you think she's OOC (or IC, for that matter), please tell me!**

**Akt the Second**

**Prompt: #5 – Betrayal**

Autor tried, in general, to control his emotions. If he was angry or irritated, he was not likely to haul off and strike the offender; the recipient of his wrath, however, would probably be put in minds of If looks could kill.

Today, as he stormed into the music practice room, he shut the door tight. Though usually it was preferable to leave it ajar, he did not care. He wanted complete solitude. If the door had a lock, he would have used it.

His fingers were on the piano keys almost before he sat down at the bench. What came out was a fast and furious piece, one he liked to play to release pent-up tension. Even as he played, the memory of the conversation he had just endured repeated in his mind.

He really did not know how he had become so unlucky as to encounter those two girls who had been Ahiru's friends—and he used the term _friends_ lightly. He had never been fond of either one of them, nor they him, but he was disgusted and repulsed by their audacity today.

_He was minding his own affairs, as always. Morning classes had ended and he was going to the music building to practice. One of the rooms was generally available for him, which was sometimes one of the only upsides to a particularly frustrating day. He needed his periods of seclusion in order to stay calm when everything was going wrong._

_He had not expected two female students to cut around a corner of the main school building too fast. He stepped back, desperate to avoid a collision, and several papers slipped from his grasp._

"_Excuse us!" the pink-haired girl exclaimed._

_He did not refrain from glaring before he bent down to retrieve his belongings. "These halls are for walking, not running or skipping," he said._

"_Oh, you're your usual unapproachable self," the blonde declared, flipping her pigtails._

_The pink-haired girl made a move to bend down and assist him, but he was already straightening, having collected everything. She stepped back, hesitant. It was obvious she wanted to say something._

_He gave her a look of impatience. "What is it?" he asked._

_She blinked in surprise before consenting. "I know it's none of our business," she said, and instantly he tensed, wondering what inappropriate thing she was about to say. "But that time when you were dead, Ahiru was devastated."_

_The blonde nodded, a bit too eager. "She still came to classes the day after it happened," she cooed, "and she looked terrible, the poor thing! Her hair was a mess and you could tell she'd been crying all night. She needed comfort more than ever!"_

_The pink-haired girl—was there an official word for people of that hair color?—crossed her arms. "And now that she's gone, the wonderful Fakir has never been the same," she said. "He was so angry for a while that almost everything set him off. Then he just lapsed into being colder and more closed-off than ever._

"_But you're just the same as always, like Lilie said," she proclaimed. "After Ahiru always talked about you and said so many nice things, we thought you'd act more upset about her death."_

_The blonde looked more openly anticipant now. "Oh yes!" she said. "Maybe you didn't really care about her at all." This was said innocently, but the desire for fireworks flashed in her eyes._

_Autor stiffened. Something flashed in his own eyes, causing the pink-haired girl to withdraw a step. The blonde watched, waiting._

_His blood had gone from gradually heating to boiling. His fists clenched at his sides as he fought to keep himself in check. It was thoroughly enticing to completely allow his temper to snap, as Fakir was so wont to do. Instead, when he spoke, he found that his tone was frozen enough to inspire shivers—albeit not to cool his fury and indignation. He doubted any level of frost could do that._

"_As I recall, neither of you have behaved any differently," he said. "You're still absolute, childish busybodies. Since the evidence is the same, perhaps none of us really cared about Ahiru." This he spat as he walked past, his shoulders back and his visage cold._

_The pink-haired girl looked taken aback, then slightly guilty. Maybe she at least realized they had gone too far. The blonde looked delighted. Autor had not erupted loudly, but rather, quietly—and that was, perhaps, more dangerous than even expected._

Autor was clenching his teeth without conscious awareness of the fact. He continued to play, his fingers soaring over the keys.

How dare they! How _dare_ they accuse him of such a gross travesty, when the blonde was surely the one actually at fault! He had never believed she had really cared about Ahiru. The pink-haired one had, he thought, but she still possessed a great deal of unwanted nerve to lay such crimes at his feet. Was she blind to her friend's behavior? It would not surprise him. How could she stand to be friendly with that sadist if she really understood?

He came to the end of the piece and leaned back. He was still every bit as angry as he had been upon coming here. He had no desire to be vulnerable; of course he would try not to openly display his sorrow and grief. But inside he had been, and still was, screaming.

He had lost his best friend.

Maybe he deserved to know what it felt like, after the pain he had caused Ahiru during the time those girls had cited—although hurting her had certainly not been intentional. But Fakir did not deserve to suffer like that again. And Ahiru was surely in agony as well. He remembered acutely how he had longed to be able to speak with her and Fakir and try to ease their pain, but had been helpless to do a thing. They had not been able to hear him the few times he had been allowed to come back.

He looked up with a defensive start when the door creaked open. Now what? Had they insolently followed him here? Or had the other music students heard about the incident and were anxious to join in?

At the sight of Fakir he relaxed, but raised an eyebrow. "You don't normally come here," he said.

Fakir grunted, stepping inside and pulling the door shut after him. "I heard about what happened with you and those girls," he said.

Autor sniffed. "I'm sure the entire school has heard by now," he said.

"They were out of line," Fakir growled. "The students who saw it think so too."

"Well, then perhaps there still is hope for the student body," Autor said. "Maybe they aren't all empty-headed, gossiping fools."

Fakir fell silent, searching Autor's eyes with his own. Autor was still deeply raging over the encounter, and with good reason. It was probably a good thing it had been Autor and not Fakir that the girls had approached, the writer reflected. Fakir doubted he could have kept from making the scene even worse. Autor had somehow remained collected.

At the same time, Fakir realized that he was angry by the unfair treatment of his friend. Piké and Lilie recognized that Fakir was aching, but had not been able to see that Autor was as well. Their accusations were really quite outrageous. Most people would know, or at least consider, that even if someone was apparently holding oneself together, they were likely devastated in their heart. When Fakir had made the mistake of accusing Autor of not caring in the past, he had spoken in anger and had been horrified moments later. Piké and Lilie fully believed what they had said. Or at least Piké likely did. It was hard to know what Lilie believed.

"I'm sorry," Fakir muttered, looking away.

Autor regarded him questioningly. "You weren't the one informing me that you believe I don't care," he said.

Fakir shrugged. "I said it before," he said, still half-grumbling.

"You didn't mean it," Autor said. "Anyway, that's all past and gone."

_And so was Ahiru._

The unspoken words lingered in the air, floating around them and slowly lowering, closing in like a cruel vise. There was no escape from its cold truth.

Now Autor was the one to look away, his hand shaking as he adjusted his glasses. "She's really gone, Fakir," he all but whispered. He sounded so unlike himself with his haunted voice cracking in pain.

"We know that!" Fakir shot back. "We're forced to live with it every day." He crossed the room, coming to stand near the front of the piano. "And we're always going to wonder if we could have done anything to save her." Now his voice had lowered in his sorrow and grief.

Autor shuddered. "She would say we couldn't have," he said. "Normally I would be saying it too."

"But now you can't. Because you wonder too." Fakir continued to look at him, half-challenging the other boy to meet his gaze. When Autor abruptly turned to face him, however, Fakir rocked back slightly. The open anguish in Autor's eyes was startling and heart-wrenching all at once.

"Of course I wonder!" Autor snapped. "How could I not, under the circumstances?"

He clenched a fist in his lap. "Those girls basically accused me of betraying Ahiru," he said now, his voice quieting. "And . . . as long as I don't know if we could have done anything more for her, how can I say I didn't?"

Fakir stiffened. Slowly he came forward, sinking onto the piano bench next to Autor and ignoring the other boy's surprise.

"I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought about the same things for myself," he said. "I try to console myself by knowing that Ahiru would tell us we could never betray her. And like you said, she'd tell us we did everything we could considering what was happening around us."

"And?" Autor looked at him expectantly. "Does it help you?"

Fakir shook his head. "Sometimes," he said. "But only marginally. Mostly it just sounds hollow," he growled.

Autor nodded in agreement.

Now they both lapsed into silence. There was no easy cure for this pain, no simple way to stop feeling that they could have done more. The fact was, Ahiru was dead. They had been left without the person whom they both loved more than anyone else.

And neither was sure the agony and guilt could ever lessen.


	3. In Darkness

**Notes: Those new to my timeline may be a little confused by the flashback opening of this segment. It concerns some things that happened over the course of several earlier fics.**

**Akt the Third**

**Prompt: #20 – Memory**

_The hoof connected with his forehead almost as soon as he pushed the child out of the way. He did not even have the chance to cry out in pain. He fell to the ground, the weight bearing down on him and sending him into oblivion._

_He had not realized that when everything went black he would end up dead. He could not accept that fact when he discovered he was standing next to his broken body. He could not even tell Fakir when the other boy gave him a ride home, unaware that Autor was a spirit. He longed so badly to find that it was not true._

_But it was true. He went to Heaven after he arrived back at his home and was forced to concede that he was dead. He remained in that afterlife for he did not know how long. Time did not appear to exist there, but if it did it seemed to pass much more slowly than on the Earth. He did not care; he was reunited with his parents and came to find peace._

_That is, until he was allowed to return to Kinkan for his funeral. When he saw Ahiru's and Fakir's grief, he was stricken with guilt. How could he think to be at peace when they were suffering?_

_He was never at ease after that. Always, he longed to return to mortality and be with his friends and comfort them. But he knew it was impossible._

_Even so, the impossible came true._

_xxxx_

"_What?" He stared at his mother in utter shock._

"_Your wish has been granted, Autor." She smiled gently at her only child. "You asked to be the one chosen to go back this hundred years. Your case has been reviewed and they've finally accepted it."_

_Autor's eyes widened. "I . . . I was chosen? But . . . how? Why? They acted like they wouldn't . . ." He was still reeling, unable to believe it._

_It had been some time ago when he had first learned that the strange legend in Kinkan concerning the revival of one worthy soul every hundred years was actually true. It just so happened that this was the hundredth year. There had been a buzz throughout the afterlife, with people pleading their cases before the heavenly court and each hoping to be the one selected. Autor had added his petition, though he had doubted they would pick him out from among so many. He knew he had not been supposed to die that night, but he was not the only one who had perished under such circumstances. And they had never acted as though he would be allowed to return._

_Now his mother laid a hand on his shoulder. "Your father and I, and your cousin's parents, pled your case after your petition was reviewed," she said._

_Autor had not thought he could be any more stunned, but he was now. "Fakir's parents?" he said. "Why?"_

_She gave him a slightly mischievous look. "I think you and Fakir have unfinished business," she said. "And you need to get ready. You'll be leaving soon."_

"_It's tonight, isn't it?" Autor said. "At midnight, Kinkan time."_

_She nodded. "You always were talented at keeping track of time and numbers," she said. "I guess that's why you were able to take over the household affairs at such a young age. Though I wish you had never had to." She studied him, feeling melancholy. "You didn't really have much of a childhood, Autor."_

"_It's alright, Mother," Autor said, blushing slightly in discomfort. "I did what had to be done. I don't regret it."_

"_You've always done what had to be done," the woman mused. "That's how you ended up here." Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. "My boy," she whispered. "My precious boy. I never wanted you to come here without having a long and fulfilling life first." She drew Autor close to her. "I love you so much."_

_Autor swallowed hard. "Mother. . . ." The words he wanted to say would not come. It would be hard, to leave her and his father after finally seeing them again. But this was right. He needed to and wanted to go back._

"_Your place isn't here. Not yet." She kissed his forehead. He had shied away from the gesture as a child, but now he held still, just looking at her. She tried to put on a brave smile. "You have that life to live."_

_Autor closed his eyes, hugging her tight._

He started back to the conscious world. For a moment he lay where he was, on his side in bed, as he tried to adjust to his surroundings.

He was alive. He had indeed been allowed to return that night and begin to try mending things with Ahiru and Fakir. They had been together for some time after that, going on strange adventures and encountering bizarre villains.

Their last escapade had taken Ahiru's life.

He sat up, touching a hand to his face. It was damp, as was the pillow. His visage twisted in disgust. What was wrong with him? He was fifteen years old. He should not be lying in bed, crying in his sleep.

He had not wept since his childhood days. But then had come that horrible night, when Fakir and Autor had struggled to fight a megalomaniacal sorcerer with their assorted Story-Spinning powers and Ahiru had fought as Princess Tutu.

_The wind whipped harshly around them as the force of the magic increased. Fakir swore, attempting to shield himself and keep his hair out of his eyes all while clutching his pen. Autor, at the piano, could not concentrate. As the magic swept past, several keys were pressed by the wind in rapid succession._

"_It's no use!" Fakir cried. "We're no match for this!"_

"_We can't stop!" Tutu protested. "If he wins, everyone in Kinkan will suffer!" She clutched the vine on which she was struggling to stand. It bent back from the supernatural gust, nearly sending her toppling off._

"_We have to take cover!" Autor exclaimed, leaping up from the piano bench. "Our powers are going to collide with his. There's nothing we can do to stop it!"_

_He ran towards the overwhelmed Tutu, wanting to bring her safely to the floor. Fakir abandoned his pen and chased after him._

_The cacophonous explosion ripped through the building before they could reach her. Autor was violently flung backwards to crash into the wall. He gasped in pain as his head struck hard against the cold marble. Vaguely he was aware that Fakir had suffered the same fate with the opposite wall. As he sank to the floor, unable to stop the growing cloud of darkness, two sounds filled his ears._

_One was the sorcerer's laughter, cut short by a sudden gasp._

_The other was Tutu's scream._

_xxxx_

_The world was blurred when Autor next opened his eyes. For a moment he gazed stupidly at the ceiling, waiting for it to come into focus. When it did not, he felt around for his glasses. Apparently he had lost them in the explosion; he could not find them lying anywhere near him. Concern creased his features._

"_Here."_

_He blinked as he looked up at a dark form bending over him that was proffering something shiny. He reached out, accepting it and holding it up in front of him. Once he determined it was his glasses, he slipped them on._

"_What happened?" he asked._

_The figure, which he had realized was Fakir, shook his head. "The magic crashed together, like you said it would," he said, his voice gruff. "We got thrown and knocked out. The sorcerer fell off the balcony; I found him laying over there, dead."_

_Autor pushed himself up on shaking arms. "And Ahiru?" he asked._

"_I don't know." Fakir clenched a fist. "I haven't found her yet."_

_Suddenly the memory of her scream filled Autor's mind. He forced himself to stand, willing the wave of dizziness to leave him alone._

"_We have to find her," he said, unable to keep the urgency out of his tone. "She can't be far."_

_Fakir gave a curt nod. "We'll split up," he said. "You go East. I was heading West from the North when I found you."_

_Autor nodded as well. As they went their separate ways, he was unable to push back the worry that was filling his heart._

_The spacious room had been completely decimated. He wandered amid the collapsed pillars and pieces of marble ceiling, both stunned and morbidly fascinated by the damage. How could mere intangible magic have done all this? The clashing forces of the varying powers had been far stronger than he could have ever imagined._

_He frowned, looking ahead to a large hill of debris. Something was lying draped across it like a ragdoll. And it almost looked like part of a wilted vine sticking out from underneath a broken pillar._

_Fear stabbed his soul. "Ahiru?" he called._

_There was no answer._

_He broke into a run, heedless of his injuries. When he fell to his knees by the body moments later, he was reeling with dizziness._

_It was definitely Ahiru. She was no longer Tutu; she was sprawled on her back in her casual clothes, her head turned to the side. Her right hand was up by her face, the fingers curled lifelessly. Autor grabbed it, his own hands trembling as he searched for a gentle throb._

"_Ahiru? Ahiru, speak to me!" he pleaded. His mind was racing. He did not want to have to face this horrible truth. There was no pulse. And he could see that she was not breathing; her chest was entirely still._

_No, it was not true. He could not see clearly from the blow he had taken. Maybe he could not feel properly, either. She had to be breathing. There had to be a pulse!_

_He reached out, gathering the limp form into his arms. Ahiru's head fell back, her long braid spreading out behind her. The piece of hair that could never seem to stay down was still sticking out and defying gravity._

_She was so cold. . . ._

_He was cold too. His cheeks were chilled. Maybe it was just the weather. He was not dead; she was not, either. She would stir and wake up, mumbling some random nonsense and being completely unaware that anything was wrong. . . ._

"_Autor? Autor, what is it? Did you find her?"_

_He looked up at Fakir, not able to fully process what the other boy was talking about. His mind was blank. He was numb and detached from this unbelievable scene._

_Something dripped from the edge of his face onto Ahiru's pale forehead. Then, as Fakir ran over in horror, seeing the lifeless body in Autor's arms, Autor became aware of one thing._

_His cheeks were chilled because he was crying._

They had tried to bring her back. Not knowing how long she had been dead, they had both tried artificial respiration and CPR, but had failed. Despite knowing that Story-Spinners could not bring back the dead with their writing Fakir had tried that too, but had only reduced himself to a sorry, grief-stricken state.

Neither of them had ever been the same. Of course, they could not be. Charon had even confided in Autor not that long ago that he was worried about the way Fakir had been taking Ahiru's death. Autor had agreed but had not known what to do. After all, he himself was not much better off. While Fakir had not been able to conceal his pain and it came out as anger and coldness, Autor had been internalizing his own suffering. It came out as pieces on the piano and, apparently, as tears in his sleep.

He pushed back the comforter quilt, swinging his legs onto the floor. "I know you must be where I was," he said aloud as he took up his glasses and slipped them on. "But I can't help wishing that I could see you again and know what you're doing. I can't help wishing . . ." He hesitated. "I can't help wishing I had my friend back," he finished, his voice lowering to a hushed whisper. "As foolish and impossible of a wish it is."

_Autor. . . ._

The voice was so faint that he froze, holding perfectly still as he waited to hear it again.

_Autor, I wish I could see you again too. And Fakir. . . ._

Now he leaped up, whirling to look around the room. "Ahiru?" he called, only belatedly aware of how desperate he sounded. "Ahiru, are you here? Where are you?"

But the voice did not come a third time. At last Autor gave up, his shoulders slumping as he gazed around the lonely room. Had he imagined it or was it real? Usually he would have some idea. This time he really could not say.

With a sigh he left the room, heading for the stairs. He would not be going back to sleep for a while. He might as well make some tea.


	4. One For the Loneliness

**Notes: Thanks to Kaze for plot help with this segment! Also, the idea of Autor ever having met Edel must be credited to Poetoffire. This prompt jumped out at me and the idea of writing some short scenes of Autor talking with her began to take shape.**

**Akt the Fourth**

**Prompt: #4 – Jewel**

At least once per day, but usually more frequently, Autor let his mind wander over all manner of subjects. He would review the day's lessons, try to determine how to get the other students to be quiet in the library, and think on the past.

Sooner or later, every topic he could find seemed to turn to Ahiru.

If he thought about Rue and her grace and poise, inevitably he would also bring to mind Ahiru's lack thereof, and how ever so slightly she had begun to improve in her ballet skills. Sometimes he would recall the times he had played the piano for the class and how he and Ahiru had quite unintentionally sown the seeds of their friendship during those meetings. In more recent times as he had played, he had observed how much better she had gotten—even if only by a margin.

And more recent still, she was not there at all. It made his heart ache to not see her or to hear her having an episode of klutziness. When she had been there, he had come to linger in the ballet room for a while after concluding his music. Without her, he only wanted to get out of the room as quickly as possible when his task was done. As much as he wanted to berate himself for such foolish and irrational feelings, the loss stabbed him too deeply. The ballet room had lost any appeal it had once had for him. It was no longer bright and worthwhile.

If he thought about Fakir and his building anger and frustration, it would be impossible not to think on the reason why. Before long Autor would be remembering Fakir and Ahiru's feelings for each other and their immature arguments and how he had usually ended up involved even though he had tried to avoid it. In general it had not taken long until all was mended, but while the conflicts had lasted Autor had often served as a listening ear and adviser for both parties.

He still recalled Fakir's exasperation with Ahiru and how he had wondered how Autor managed to stay so calm when Autor and Ahiru disagreed. Ahiru had rambled on about her frustrations with Fakir, ending with her comments on how sometimes she just could not _stand_ him and how did Autor deal with him so well?

On some level it amused him that each had seemed to think he handled interaction with the other very shrewdly.

If he thought about the other students at the academy, he started to ponder on what they had thought of Ahiru and how they behaved now. Ahiru, in spite of her terrible grades and her clumsiness and her bursts of childish behavior, had been well liked on the campus. It was really impossible not to like her, with her cheeriness and friendliness and her desire to reach out to others. Even now, he heard students talk of how they missed seeing her around.

Once, an annoyed girl had asked him why, after spending so much with Ahiru, hadn't some of her cheeriness rubbed off on him? He had responded just as annoyed that Fakir was not cheery either and why was she singling him out to ask? She had told him that the girls liked Fakir and his brooding nature, whereas they were not fond of Autor.

His patience had bent back extraordinarily far at that. _"And yet you mourned my death,"_ he had told her. _"I remember you at my funeral. If I'm not mistaken, you actually cried."_

Having been caught, she had stiffened in mortification. Autor was correct, and she had not been able to find a satisfactory answer.

Sometimes, another student had muttered as she had fled, it was really quite uncomfortable that Autor had died and come back to life. His memory was too good. And there was no telling exactly what he was aware of that they would not think he would know.

With his temper already stretched taut, Autor had asked if she wished he had stayed dead. She had gone red, stammering that of course she had not meant that.

Autor sighed to himself. He could not really make sense of the majority of the students' behavior. They had thought more of him in death than in life. Part of him wondered whether some of them had thought that his fatal sacrifice made him into some kind of saint. If so, they were probably sorely disappointed that he was still the same unsociable musician as before. Perhaps they had also not thought someone such as he would even be capable of trying to save someone and dying for it.

Ahiru was likely still the same. He could not imagine her sweet, caring nature ever changing. He hoped it would not. He would not be surprised, however, if she was feeling sorrow and helplessness because of his and Fakir's inability to get over her departure from the mortal realm.

It was odd, sometimes—the thoughts that came to him. Now he was wondering whether Ahiru ever communicated with the spirit of Drosselmeyer's puppet Edel. He had never been quite clear on whether Edel's spirit lingered with Uzura at all times or if she was just able to communicate through Uzura whether or not she was directly present. Either way, it might be possible for Ahiru to talk with her.

Autor had passed Edel twice when she had been selling gems on street corners. He had never been sure what to make of her and the unsettling way she had of seeming to peer into people's souls. Both times he had been left bewildered and uneasy, not sure whether she actually knew something of who he was or whether she just made several astute guesses. Now that he knew who she was, he was still not sure of the answer. But Drosselmeyer had likely spied on him as well as the rest of the townspeople, so Edel had surely witnessed him during at least some of those times.

"_Would you like to buy a gem?" she queried the first time they met._

"_And what would I do with one?" he sniffed in retort._

"_A gift for a family member, perhaps, or a love interest?" She held one out to him. "This is The Author's Convenience."_

"_What kind of name is that?" he frowned, eying the object. It was attractive; he would not deny that. But its name was bizarre._

_She just smiled and chuckled softly under her breath._

"_I have no one to give such a thing to," he said then, walking past her. "This meeting will only waste both our time. Good day."_

The second time he had seen her had likely been one of her final days. He had determined that after hearing a timeline of events from Ahiru and Fakir. He had passed her in the marketplace, across from the pizza parlor.

"_So we meet again," she greeted._

"_It would seem so," he said, pushing up his glasses. "But I still have no use for your jewels."_

"_Are you sure there isn't someone in your life who would like one?" she returned._

_He frowned. It was a strange question. Of course, it was likely just a saleswoman ploy. Still, from the way she had said it, it almost sounded like she knew there was someone. And that disturbed him._

_No one should know about his admiration of Rue. He had spoken of it to no one. He watched her from afar, certain that she would never give someone like him the time of day. She never seemed to notice him, which only furthered his beliefs._

_The only other girl in his life was the clumsy redhead he had seen and interacted with during the two times he had played the piano for the ballet class. She would likely thrill at the sight of something so "pretty", but there was no reason why he would buy such a thing for her. He did not intend that they would be encountering each other again. And they were completely incompatible; he had no interest in her._

"_There is no one to whom I would be giving one," he said. "You seem to be doing well enough for yourself; I see you have some different selections than before. Kindly leave me be."_

It was strange, he mused. Though he still had feelings for Rue, it was Ahiru to whom he had grown so close, in spite of their "incompatibility." Their friendship had gone deeper than anything he had ever had with Rue.

He remembered how she had told him about Edel's gems, including The Author's Convenience. She had found the name as odd as he had, and he could not help wondering why Edel had chosen to show that one to him. From what Ahiru had said, Edel had tended to display gems that she felt suited the person and the situation. Perhaps Drosselmeyer himself had told her to show him that one, feeling it would be amusing considering Autor's desire to write.

Maybe, he thought, he should have bought a jewel from her. Although he really had no idea what he would have done with it back then.

For that matter, he had no idea what he would do with one now. It would be highly inappropriate to give a personal gift like that to Rue, when she was betrothed to Mytho. However, if Ahiru were still here. . . .

He frowned. Yes, if Ahiru were still here, he might have at least considered giving one to her. He knew now more than ever how excited she would have been over receiving something so "pretty." And she would have prized it and taken good care of it.

On the other hand, a gift such as a jewel would be more the kind of thing that Fakir should have given to her. Perhaps Fakir should have, when he had had the chance.

Autor sat up straight with a jerk. What on earth was he doing, spending time thinking of such ridiculous, inconsequential things? Edel and Ahiru were both gone. This train of thought was absolutely pointless.

Pushing himself out of the chair he crossed to the window, staring at the cold Kinkan night.

"I truly am hopeless," he said aloud, bitterness clouding his tone.


	5. The Sorrow

**Notes: And with this chapter I wonder if I will have to dodge flying cookware, because … well, look at the prompt. So I drop another note that I set my Tutu fics in the modern day, not just because that's how I like it but because there's some things in canon that just don't jibe with an old setting. Thanks to Moon Shadow Magic for inspiration for the first half!**

**Akt the Fifth**

**Prompt: #32 – Cellphone/Computer**

Autor was certain the new day was going to turn out terrible when, as he walked out of the main school building following morning classes, he saw the pink-haired girl purposely coming towards him. He braced himself, clenching his teeth behind his closed lips.

"I would ask what you want," he said, "but I don't have the time, nor am I in the mood, for another of your lectures."

She stopped in front of him, clutching one hand with her other.

"I've been under a lot of stress lately," she said. Her eyes darted about for a moment in her uneasiness, then focused on him once more. "I didn't mean to take it out on you. I mean, I guess I honestly have wondered if you really cared, but I wasn't going to confront you about it. Then we ran into each other, and I couldn't help thinking of it again, and you noticed and asked me what I wanted. I didn't have any self-control to stop myself then." She looked down, clearly wanting this talk to end.

Autor was not impressed. "It couldn't have taken long for news to get back to the heads of the dormitories," he said. "Do you actually feel badly for what you said, or are you just worried that you'll get in trouble with your dorm mother?"

The pink-haired girl flinched. "I . . . I guess it's kind of both," she admitted, unable to meet his gaze. "Or maybe . . ." She frowned, her eyes again flitting from side to side as she tried to think how to phrase what she wanted to say. "Maybe the real truth is that I've been kind of jealous of you."

Autor was stunned. "What on earth for?" he said in disbelief. This was something he had definitely not expected to hear.

She gripped her books. "Because Ahiru used to always be with me and Lilie," she said at last, finally looking up at him. "We were inseparable; Lilie even called us the Three Musketeers. But then . . . then she started getting in close with the wonderful Fakir and you. She started drifting away from us. By the time you were killed a while back, she was hardly ever with us at all." She looked down at her books. "And I really missed her. So when she died and you just acted like you were carrying on like normal, it made me upset. I was thinking this out after we met before and I realized I wanted to tell you. Maybe that's why I'm here now."

Autor pondered on that. "Maybe," he said, not unkindly, "you should consider that the reason Ahiru began to gravitate away from you and your friend is mainly because of your friend's behavior."

She started, her eyes widening. "Ahiru always stuck it out before," she said. "She said she knew Lilie has good points too."

"Everyone has a breaking point," Autor said. "If you must know, the way your friend acted about my death is what pushed Ahiru over the edge."

She stared at him. "Ahiru told you that?" she exclaimed.

"She didn't tell me," Autor said. "Even with her heart absolutely shattered, she didn't want to speak ill of this Lilie girl to anyone. But I saw her during that time. I could tell from her behavior how she began to change after that."

The pink-haired girl frowned and looked down, clearly not having expected the conversation to take this turn. Autor sighed, pushing up his glasses.

"Maybe you're unaware of how the other students try, by and large, to avoid the two of you," he said. "It's mainly because of your friend. People don't like how unsociable I am because they consider me uncaring. But they also dislike people who act uncaring in other ways. Your friend may be very sociable, yet she comes across as a selfish sadist."

Her head shot up, and she looked about to retort, but then her shoulders slumped and she sighed. "I guess she does," she said. "I've been with her a long time, so I've learned how to deal with her. But people who don't know her wouldn't see her like that."

"Ahiru saw something in me that most people do not," Autor said. "And if I can help it, they won't. It's none of their business. However, your and your friend's comments were still uncalled for."

She looked down. "I know," she said. "And I am sorry."

Maybe she actually was. She seemed to have a conscience, unlike her friend. But Autor merely nodded. He did not want to deal with her any longer than necessary. From the way her gaze kept wandering, she felt the same about him.

"I won't let it happen again," she said now as she started to walk away.

"I hope not," Autor responded.

He frowned as he thought on the revelation that she was jealous of him. Maybe he was expected to offer remorse for that, but he did not think he needed to apologize. It was not his fault that Ahiru had at last seen the light where Lilie was concerned. Well, perhaps he was inadvertently responsible, but as the pink-haired girl had pointed out, Ahiru had started to drift away before his death had even happened.

He turned, walking in the opposite direction.

xxxx

He was in the library when Fakir found him later that day.

"What are you doing?" Fakir grunted, leaning on the edge of the wooden cubicle with his forearm.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Autor sniffed in response. "I'm testing out the computer the school sent for." He grabbed the mouse, minimizing the Internet browser. "It's incredible, isn't it?" he said, hoping to change the subject.

Even though some modern things had trickled into Kinkan while they had been in Drosselmeyer's bubble, computers had not made it. And while the town was still old-fashioned, some places had determined that now that they were free it was time to move into the modern age. Kinkan Academy had been among the first to make the decision.

Autor had been intrigued and excited. Of course, so had most of the students, to a certain degree. Once the computer had arrived, Autor had begun spending a lot of time figuring out its intricacies and looking up information—whenever he had the chance to wiggle his way in from among the other ogling students.

Ahiru would have been fascinated by it. He could just imagine her exclamations of awe and her exploration of every key on the keyboard and each application on the computer. Her short attention span would have made a dizzying show for any bystander. It might have even been dizzying for the poor computer.

Perhaps that was why Fakir had not wanted to get her one of those pocket phones.

Fakir did not look impressed at the moment. If Ahiru's reactions had occurred to him, he said nothing.

"Yeah sure," he said instead. "But what were you looking at? You were in a hurry to get it out of my sight."

"You know I can't stand it when someone reads over my shoulder," Autor retorted.

"You're just using that as an excuse," Fakir said. He came around to the front, crossing his arms as he frowned at the screen. On the task bar, the browser window's bar read _Kinkan Daily News._

"That isn't today's news, is it," he said.

"No, it isn't," Autor conceded at last. "It's the article they put out after Ahiru's death."

Fakir's lip curled. The reporters had followed both him and Autor around after it had happened, wanting to get an insider's scoop on the story. The same thing had occurred with him and Ahiru after Autor's death.

"What do you want to look at that for?" he said. "I'd just as soon forget it."

"And yet you can't," Autor said. "It would be impossible for either of us to do that."

He sighed, leaning back and removing his glasses to rub at his eyes. "I actually didn't intend to look at it," he said tiredly. "When I sat down, I discovered that the previous student had been looking at the newspaper's website and hadn't closed it. Then I noticed the option to search back issues. Since this technology is new in Kinkan, I wondered how far back the online editions went."

"And so you looked up the date of that article," Fakir finished.

"Yes." Autor replaced his glasses. "It's all there, including the picture of Ahiru they printed. Although this online version features the picture in color."

Fakir placed a hand on the back of the chair, leaning forward. "How does it look?" he asked.

"Good," Autor said. "It's captured quite exactly."

"Let me see it," Fakir said.

"If that's what you want." Autor clicked the browser's bar, bringing the window up again. Behind him, he could feel Fakir stiffen as the photograph came into view.

In it, Ahiru was turning to smile cheerfully at the camera. Her long braid whipped out, in motion from the sudden whirl.

Fakir gripped the back of the chair, his knuckles going white. "She had no idea something was going to go wrong," he said at last.

"Nor did we," Autor said.

Fakir swore, straightening with a jerk. "We should have known," he said. "We should have been able to get to her in time. Instead we just let ourselves be thrown across the room while she was falling to her death!"

Autor flinched. "I can't speak for you, Fakir, but I didn't _let_ myself be helplessly flung into senselessness," he said, an edge slipping into his tone. "And I'm not sure the fall is what killed her."

Fakir frowned. "What, then?"

"I think both she and the sorcerer were caught in the crossfire of the magic," Autor said. "If so, it wouldn't have mattered if we had caught her. She would have likely been dead before striking the floor."

"And yet we were thrown clear," Fakir said. "Why? Where's the logic in that?"

Autor clenched his teeth. "I don't know," he said. "I can't explain it."

"You should be able to," Fakir growled. "You have an answer for everything else."

Autor fell silent, looking back to the picture on the computer screen. "I have an answer for everything," he said finally, staring into Ahiru's bright blue eyes, "except what matters most."


	6. Nothing in the World Could Tear Us Apart

**Notes: And here is the final segment. I might have waited another day to post it, but I'm very eager to start posting a new mystery story I've been working on. I'm unsure of how the ending will be received, but it's the ending I've really wanted since Akt 1. Thanks to Kaze and Lisa, who helped with this segment, and thanks to everyone who has provided help and/or read and reviewed!**

**Akt the Sixth**

**Prompt: #27 – Tight**

Autor sank into a chair near the roaring fire, cradling a cup of tea in his hands. He stared into the blaze, watching the flames dancing and lapping without really seeing them.

It had been a strange few weeks—not that things had not been strange ever since Ahiru's demise.

Luckily, he had not had any further encounters with either of Ahiru's female friends. He was perfectly content to not see them any more, and he was certain the pink-haired girl felt the same. Perhaps she was jealous, but regardless, she had never liked him to begin with. And the feeling was quite mutual.

For the most part, all the students had left him alone. The dorm parents had been horrified and sickened to learn of the way he had been treated over the past weeks. After the incident with Piké and Lilie they had grown more attentive and diligent, wanting to make sure that all similar incidents would be prevented. And the students, not wanting word to get back to them that said otherwise, cooperated.

Autor sipped the tea, his mind continuing to wander.

He and Fakir had spoken some the last few days. Fakir knew he needed to try taking up his writing again, but at the same time he did not want to. He had done nothing with it since Ahiru's death, not having the heart or the will since his and Autor's powers had been partially responsible for the explosion.

"_When you feel ready, you really should try again," Autor told him. "The more we hone our abilities, the less likelihood there is of something like this happening another time."_

"_Ahiru's already gone," Fakir said bitterly._

"_She would want us both to continue," Autor said. "Like it or not, I doubt that sorcerer will be the last of our enemies. And I, for one, don't want to see a repeat of what happened to Ahiru happen to someone else."_

_Of course Fakir agreed. But his eyes narrowed as he retorted, "I haven't heard you practicing with your music powers lately."_

_Autor looked away. "Neither of us should try to force ourselves to use our abilities," he answered, somewhat stiffly. "More than likely, it would only deliver mediocre results." Pushing up his glasses he added, "I did say 'When you feel ready.'"_

_Fakir grunted in response._

_Both of them still wondered if Ahiru's death could have been prevented had they known some other way to handle the problem. And the more time passed, the deeper the wounds seemed to go. Time had not proved a healing balm for them._

Finishing the tea, Autor set the cup and saucer on the table next to the chair. Then he stood, crossing the room to the grand piano and sinking down on the bench. As he touched the keys he found himself playing the piece he had written for Ahiru. It always stirred such a mixture of feelings within his heart—from longing to nostalgia to melancholia.

He wanted to hear Ahiru ramble on about silly, pointless things. He wanted to see her twirl about, bright and cheery, and take his arm to drag him off on some strange adventure. He would not even mind witnessing her and Fakir arguing—much, anyway. At least it would mean she was there to argue with Fakir.

How had everything gone so wrong? He asked himself that question every day, but there were no satisfactory answers. Why hadn't he or Fakir been able to rescue Ahiru in time? And if the magic and not the fall had killed her, would saving her have even been possible?

He was growing more worried about Fakir as the days wore on. Fakir was sinking further into his grief and guilt. Perhaps, if Autor were to examine himself, he would find that he was doing the same thing. He did not like to study his feelings for long, not in a case like this when merely thinking them over was painful. Fakir, he knew, held similar misgivings.

_And if the blind lead the blind, they'll both fall in the ditch,_ he thought to himself. _We've both fallen in already of our own doing. How do we even begin to discern the way to climb out?_

The soft, almost hesitant knock startled him. He stopped playing, frowning as he looked towards the door. Who would be coming at this hour? And, he noted, they had chosen to come to the front door instead of the door to the study. Had they seen the light or heard the piano? It did not really matter, although he had to wonder what the caller wanted.

He got up, crossing to the door and opening it. "Yes, what is it?" he frowned. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

But then he caught sight of the girl looking back at him and the world began to spin. He stumbled, slamming into the heavy wooden door. For the first time in his life, he thought he might swoon from shock rather than an illness.

"Autor? Ohmygosh, Autor, are you okay?"

His heart was pounding fast, almost too fast to hear her at all. She was running up to him, touching his shoulder with a warm hand of flesh and blood.

"This isn't real," he managed to say. "It can't be real." He stared into Ahiru's wide blue eyes. "It's some sort of dream or hallucination." He reached out, his own hand trembling as he laid it over hers.

Tears pricked her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Autor. I . . ." Her lower lip quivered. "I'm alive. That awful sorcerer, he . . . he planned everything! All the magic made the dead me you found. He did it on purpose just to be mean to you and Fakir. I got sent to this creepy place that I couldn't get out of, but sometimes I could see you and Fakir and I couldn't talk to you and I couldn't let you know I was okay and . . ."

Autor stared at her, his heart continuing to hammer in his ears. Was this actually true? What if this was another cruel trick of the sorcerer's, sending a living Ahiru illusion to torment them now? How would he know?

"The sorcerer," he managed to say. "Is he really dead?" He had been so sure, but they had been sure about Ahiru too, and now he was not sure of anything.

"I think so," Ahiru said. "He didn't mean for the magic to backfire on him . . . at least, I don't _think_ he did. . . ." She shifted. "Unless maybe the magic made a fake him too. . . ." Her eyes widened. "What if he's alive too and he's going to come back and cause more trouble?"

"Then we'll handle it," Autor said at last, still reeling. "And we'll be more wise the next time we meet."

It almost felt as though he were reciting lines from a script without actually thinking about their content. He could not process the concept of the sorcerer being alive any more than he could process Ahiru being alive.

Ahiru nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess that's all we can do," she said. "But I hope he won't come back."

"As do I," Autor said.

"I've been wandering around for ages!" Ahiru declared now. "It was like a whole dimension inside of this one! When I finally got out and I went to see Fakir, he got really pale. Then he started coming over all slow, like he couldn't believe it was me. . . . I could hardly believe I was really out. I . . ."

Autor's grip on her hand tightened. "How do I know you're Ahiru?" he demanded, unable to refrain any longer from asking. "You come here with a story about the deceased Ahiru being fake. In actuality, you could be the fake."

"But I'm not!" Ahiru exclaimed in desperation. "I know you and Fakir have been through so much, Autor, and I know it's probably impossible to believe it, but I'm really me. I'm alive and okay!"

She trembled. "I wanted to talk to you and Fakir so bad, so many times," she said. "I saw Fakir getting upset and hitting things, and you so heart-broken and still trying to go on like usual, and . . ." She looked up at him. "I know how you must have felt," she whispered. "When you were . . . dead, I mean."

Autor searched her eyes for any indication of insincerity or a lack of knowledge in what she professed to be aware of, but he could find none. Slowly he began to let go of her hand.

"I was able to talk to you just once, kind of," she said. "I could see you through one of the weird window things in that place. You looked so sad." She blinked back tears. "You tried to talk to me, and when I answered, you acted like you heard me."

He stiffened. "Yes," he said. "I tried to get you to talk to me more, but for whatever reason the communication had broken."

"It gave me some hope anyway," Ahiru said, her voice hushed. "I'd just about given up by then. But when you heard me I started thinking again that maybe I really could get out and come home."

Autor gazed at her, only now realizing that the last threads of his heart-broken and skeptical doubt were unraveling. If this was real, then Ahiru had indeed been suffering too, though not under the circumstances Autor had imagined. Unlike him, she had been alive. But akin to his own situation, she had not been able to return and had watched her loved ones in agony. Yet also like him, she finally had come back . . . if this was not some sort of cruel dream or illusion.

"Ahiru?" he breathed. His voice had gained a tremor. "It . . . it really is you? It isn't a trick or a delusion?"

Ahiru gave a soft nod. "Yeah," she said. "I know, I can hardly believe it myself, so I know you must be having a really terrible time." Her voice lowered. "I remember how hard it was for Fakir to really believe you'd come back. . . ."

She peered into his conflicted brown eyes. "Is there anything I can say that would help you believe it's really me?" she asked.

He hesitated. "I don't know," he said. "I . . . I don't see how you could really know about what happened the night I heard you, or about Fakir, if you weren't actually Ahiru. And yet I don't know how far that madman could go to craft an illusion."

Ahiru nodded. "Would he know about the times you stayed after playing the piano for class and played it for me while I practiced?" she ventured. "Or about the time we sat up waiting for Fakir to come home and I fell asleep on the couch with you?"

Autor gazed back at her. "No," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "No, I don't see how he could."

And his self-restraint snapped. He reached out, pulling Ahiru close in a tight embrace. "It's you," he declared with reverence. "It actually is you!"

Ahiru was stunned by the act. But then she smiled, throwing her arms around Autor in turn. He rarely ever hugged, and so far it had mostly only been a couple of times when Ahiru had made the first move. For him to hug first showed how deeply he felt.

"I'm so glad to be home," she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder for a brief moment. "I thought I'd never get back."

"I still don't understand how you did," Autor said.

"Me either. But we can talk about that later, right?"

He nodded. "Yes." It seemed irrelevant at the moment, but later he would want to question her thoroughly. This other dimension was something they needed to learn as much about as they could.

"Hey," she said then, looking up at him, "what were you playing? It was pretty. I heard you playing it one other time, and I tried to ask what it was, but . . ." She glanced away. "You couldn't hear me then."

Autor smiled a bit. "I wrote it for you," he said. "It's about you."

"About me?" She looked back up at him with a start.

"I've wanted to write it for so long," Autor said. "I wish I'd done it before . . . any of this." He exhaled sharply. "I wanted to play it for you."

"You can now!" she chirped.

Autor pulled back, looking at her fondly. "I can, can't I," he mused.

Still smiling, he kept an arm around her shoulders as he led her inside. She went with him, hugging him with one arm.

"I'm glad you're home as well," he said, shutting the door behind them.

Two treasured friends, reunited at last.


End file.
